Free The Magdalen Martyrs by Ken Bruen Page B

and laughed at my degradation. I sat outside Sweeney’s and simply clocked the times he came in and out. He was fixed in a routine. All I had to do now was decide when I’d take him. Nev would be another day’s work. For him, I’d require time.
    To celebrate the ease of this, I headed for a new pub, new to me at any rate, McSwiggan’s in Wood Quay. Even sounds like a decent place.
    A tree grows in Brooklyn.
    And also in McSwiggan’s.
    Kidding I ain’t. Smack in the back bar, a lovely solid tree. Only in Ireland. Don’t cut the timber but do build the pub. I liked it already. Huge place. I settled near the tree.
    Who wouldn’t?
    Had two sips dug in my Guinness when a woman approached. I thought,
    “What a pub.”
    Then I clocked the neat tiny pearl earrings. Ban garda.
    You don’t have to be a policewoman to wear them, but ban gardai have a certain style in their usage, that says,
    “So OK, I’m a guard, but hey, I’m feminine, too.”
    Her age was in that blurred over thirty area that makeup can disguise. A pretty face, very dark hair and steel in her jaw line. She said,
    “Jack Taylor.”
    Not a question, a statement. I said,
    “Can I cop a plea?”
    “May I sit down?”
    “If you behave.”
    Glimmer of a smile. She said,
    “I’ve heard about your mouth.”
    She spoke English like they do when they’ve been reared in the Gaeltacht. It is their second language. Never sits fully fluently. I said,
    “Connemara?”
    “Furbo.”
    “And you heard about my mouth . . . from . . . let’s see . . . Superintendent Clancy?”
    Frown, then shake of the head.
    “No . . . others . . . but not him.”
    Her clothes were good but not great. Navy sweater with white collar, dark blue jeans and freshly white trainers. None of it designer gear, more Penney’s than Gucci. They’d been given a lot of usage but were well maintained. Like her life, I surmised. She’d never rise above C-list status. She asked,
    “How did you know I was a ban garda?”
    “I used to be a guard.”
    Now she gave a dazzling smile, transformed her face. A mix of devilment and delight, the very best kind, said,
    “Oh, I know that.”
    She was drinking something orange in a glass, with lots of ice. I’d bet heavy it was Britvic and nothing added. Here was your sensible girl. Drinking would be at weekends and never lethal. I asked,
    “What do you want?”
    “To talk.”
    My turn to smile, without devilment or even warmth, the one they teach you in Templemore. I asked,
    “What about?”
    She glanced over her shoulder, then I thought,
    “What? Coke, pills, drink?”
    “The Magdalen.”
    Caught me by surprise. I said,
    “Oh.”
    “You’re out of your depth. I can help.”
    I took a long swig of my pint, felt it massage my stomach. I asked,
    “And why would you want to do that?”
    A moment, shadows flitted across her face, then,
    “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
    I drained my glass, asked,
    “Get you something?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Bríd . . . Bríd Nic an Iomaire.”
    Had to digest that, reach into old memory for translation, said,
    “Ridge . . . am I right?”
    She gave a disgusted look, said,
    “We don’t use the English form.”
    “Why does that not surprise me?”
    I stood up, said,
    “Hate to drink and run.”
    “You’re going?”
    “No wonder you’re a policewoman.”
    “But don’t you know that Superintendent Clancy’s aunt was a nun in the laundry?”
    I tried not to show my surprise, and she said,
    “See, you do need the guards.”
    “Honey, it’s a long time since I needed anything from the guards.”
    “You’re making a mistake.”
    “Believe me, it’s what I do best.”

 
    ‘To her way of thinking, such mishaps were intimately connected to
the intelligence of the recipient. Violence happened to people who,
unlike her, did not have the common sense to avoid it.”
    Louise Doughty,
Honey Dew
    Two days later, I was drink free hut drug ridden. The